You know, sometimes, when you least expect it, something big happens. Something so monumental, it changes you completely. I would know. Itís happened to me. The day I met you.

You didnít know it then, how much I loved you. Hell, you didnít know it for years. Sure, you had an inkling, God, I was so obvious about it, but you never said a word. My wants, my needs, my desires, these were foreign to you. Hell, they still are.

Because you never understood me. You may think you do, but you donít. You donít have a clue. Not a fucking clue. You donít know what makes me laugh or cry. You donít know about my dreamsÖabout my fearsÖabout the things that I think about. You donít know about the things I see when no oneís around. You donít know about the things I hear when Iím alone. You donít know because you never asked. And I never told you.

I never told you how much I love the way you smile. I never told you how much I longed to feel your lips on mine, to feel your fingers run through my hair, to hear you whisper my name. I never told you about all the times that I snuck into your room and watched you while you slept. I never told you how much I wanted to just make the pain disappear. I never told you how Iíd cry myself to sleep for you. Over you. I never told you how Iíd doodle our initials on my parchment when I shouldíve been taking notes. I never told you how Iíd imagine the two of us, lying in each otherís arms. I never told you how much I wanted to be the one that you could confide in.

You never asked, so I never said.

You never asked if I was okay; you assumed that I was. You never asked if I loved you; you assumed I did. You never asked whether or not I wanted to hang out with you and your friends; you assumed that I did. You never asked if I agreed with you; apparently, you didnít care.

But you were wrong.

I was never okay. Would you be? If I left you alone and only called you when I wanted you, would you be okay? If I ignored your very existence unless I needed some favor from you, would you be okay?

No.

You wouldnít.

Of course not.

Youíd have a ruddy fit, wouldnít you? Youíd pout, and youíd fuss, and youíd corner me until I paid attention to you.

Why did you do it to me?

I defended you, you know. When everyone called you an arrogant prat, I defended your honor. When they told me that you werenít good enough for me, I defended your reputation. When they said that you were only using me, I defended your intentions.

But do you care?

No.

You wouldnít.

Of course not.

And you proved them right.

You are an arrogant prat. You arenít good enough for me. You were only using me.

But do you care?

No.

You wouldnít.

Of course not.

You got what you wanted, didnít you? You always do, you know. Despite your protests otherwise, youíre a spoiled little brat who always gets what you want. Everyone is on their tiptoes around you. Everyone is afraid of you. Of your temper. Of your power. Of what you can do. And you enjoy it. You enjoy making them suffer. They are dying because of you. Everyday, every minute, every second that passes, they are dying. And itís all your fault.

But do you care?

No.

You wouldnít.

Of course not.

Why should you care, after all? You have what you want. Fame. Money. Women throwing themselves at your feet. Power.

Thatís the big thing for you, isnít it? You have power.

Power over those whoíve tormented you all their life. Power over the weak. Power over everyone. Power to do whatever you please.

Power to torture and kill those who love you most.

Voldemort would be proud. No, more than that, heíd be envious. But that doesnít matter now. Heís dead. And thatís why you have this power now. Because he was murdered. True, he caused countless deaths. But ultimately, he was murdered. In cold blood. In his own bed, no less.

But do you care?

No.

You wouldnít.

Of course not.

The Dark Lord has fallen. Why should you care? Thereís no one to challenge you now. You can do as you please, and no one will say anything.

No one except me.

I am the only one who will tell you the truth about yourself. The truth that you run from.

You are a coward.

A pathetic excuse for a man.

No, youíre not a man. Youíre less than a man.

Youíre a monster.

I donít care what anyone says. Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore--they can all go to hell. For they, too, tiptoe around you. Must not set him off, must not make him angry, must not burst his little bubble.

Well, itís too late.

*POP*

There.

Your bubble has been popped. Now you have to face reality. You must face what you did. What you are still doing. You couldnít see how much you were hurting everyone, how much you were hurting yourself.

How much you were hurting me.

Now you do.

But do you care?

No.

You wouldnít.

Of course not.

But you will.

Iíll make sure you do.

Iíll be there.

Every step you take, every breath you breathe, every second you live, Iíll be there. Iíll show you what youíve done. Iíll make you see it. Touch it. Taste it. Smell it. Hear it. Be it. Iíll make you hurt like the rest of us have hurt.

And youíll care.

Yes.

You will.

Of course you will.

I promise.

A/N:: I purposely left the identity of the one speaking and the one being spoken to unknown. Use your judgement to decide if it's Hermione or Ginny talking to Draco or Harry.